


Strength

by Nix (CrimsonQuills)



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonQuills/pseuds/Nix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus is receiving letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, there's practically no plot in this story, but I basically wanted an excuse for Neroon to write a love letter to Marcus. And Kim wanted fic for her birthday, which gave my muse the perfect excuse to write this. Happy b-day, Kim! This has nothing to do with Halloween, but I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> #blah# = text of a letter

He found the first letter affixed to the door of his quarters with a soft, red, wax-like substance. The paper was heavy and cream colored and his name was inscribed on the front of it in slanted, flowing letters. Marcus carefully removed it from the door and glanced about him, though he'd seen no one as he approached.

Inside his rooms he turned over the smooth rectangle and discovered that it was, in fact, a single page that had been folded neatly and crisply into a smaller rectangle, like an envelope. The leaves were sealed with an uneven circle of the same wax-like material. The circle was uneven because it had been pressed flat by a finger. The ridges were clearly visibly, perfectly preserved. 

Marcus turned the heavy, sealed page over and over in his hands. It was such an anachronism. The paper, the hand- written address, the imitation wax seal. He imagined the sender would have used real sealing wax, except that no one made sealing wax anymore. It had persisted as a curiosity long past its time -- Marcus recalled having some as a child -- but had finally vanished sometime in the last decade. Marcus knew. He'd tried to find some not so long ago. 

It was odd, though, that they'd impressed the pseudo-wax with a finger instead of with a carved seal. That was unusual even in the context of this most unusual message. Marcus hesitated a moment, then fetched a knife and cut the wax seal off instead of breaking it. He carefully set it aside and unfolded the letter. 

It was written in dark blue ink that glittered with an almost metallic sheen. The handwriting was elegant and smooth and even, though the paper was not ruled. Marcus found a smile quirking his lips as he wondered how many practice attempts had preceded this perfect inscription. The message itself was a single line in length. 

#I have seen the fire of your eyes.# 

There was no salutation and no signature. Marcus actually turned the paper over to check the name. It was still his. 

#I have seen the fire of your eyes.# 

Suddenly the purpose of the fingerprint in the seal was clear. It was a plea for trust. The sender had not signed their name because they were not ready to be known. But they'd provided the means for Marcus to positively identify them, if he should get nervous. 

He ran a finger delicately over the line of script. Then he gathered up the circle of fingerprinted wax and knelt down next to his bed. Marcus pulled out a drawer set into the base of the bed and emptied out its meager contents. He moved them to the second drawer, then laid the letter and wax alone in the first drawer. 

*** 

The second letter was tucked in amongst the folds of his uniform, waiting for him after he'd finished sparring with Neroon. 

The Warrior had come aboard Babylon 5 three days before and Marcus knew it was driving Sheridan nuts trying to figure out what the Minbari was up to. So far he'd done nothing but explore the station and request that Marcus spar with him. 

He had agreed, more because he was nervous than for any other reason. He suspected Neroon had seen his fear in his eyes, but had said nothing. Within minutes the Warrior had proven he was more than capable of pulling his punches, as it were. Each blow that slipped through Marcus's guard fell no harder than a gentle tap. 

Once he'd put his nervousness behind him, Marcus enjoyed sparring with Neroon far more than he had expected. Neroon challenged his skill as no other on the station had been able to. Marcus found himself pushing his own limits, pulling from deep within himself to be faster, to anticipate better, to find new movements. 

Today had only been their second session, but as Marcus stepped into the changing rooms he felt he was riding an endorphin high. Freshly showered, standing before the cubicle where he'd stashed his clothing, Marcus caught sight of the letter. For a moment the fading rush sharpened, sweetened. 

It took more willpower than Marcus wanted to admit to dress and tuck the letter between tunic and shirt without reading it. He didn't want someone walking into the changing rooms to catch him reading it. It seemed too personal. 

Marcus walked quickly back to his quarters. He was vividly aware of the letter tucked into his clothing. He dropped the small bag of exercise clothes just inside the door and withdrew the letter from its hiding place. It was the same thick paper, the same blue ink, the same slanted handwriting spelling out his name. Turning it over, he found it had once again been sealed with the imitation wax and a fingerprint. 

Despite the fact that he still had the old one, Marcus carefully preserved this print as well. Then he sat slowly upon the edge of his bed and unfolded the paper. 

#I have seen the honor in your soul.# 

That was all. Once again, a single line, no salutation, no signature. It was, Marcus thought, a rather strange choice. Strange but...somehow appropriate. Marcus found himself smiling as he carefully laid the second letter atop the first and closed the drawer he'd set aside for them. 

*** 

The next day Marcus turned every corner half expecting to find another letter waiting for him. As the day wore on, disappointment slowly began to eat at him. His sparring session with Neroon late that dad went badly -- or rather, it would have if Neroon weren't so good at pulling his own strikes. 

"Marcus," the Warrior grounded his pike and frowned at his sparring partner. "You are distracted." 

"I know," Marcus sighed. "I've been waiting for something all day, and it hasn't happened yet." 

Neroon lifted his brow. "Waiting for what?" 

Marcus fought down a blush and shook his head. "I'd rather not say." 

Neroon tilted his head, just watching the Ranger for a moment. "Come to dinner with me," he said abruptly. "Perhaps I can distract you." 

"I doubt it," Marcus sighed, closing his denn'bok, "but you're welcome to try." 

To Marcus's surprise, he was quite wrong. The dinner conversation began with a simple inquiry from Neroon about a move Marcus had used in their sparring session and flowed naturally from there to the adaptations Marcus had made to traditional denn'bok techniques. He did, after all, have to compensate for inferior strength -- and take advantage of superior agility. 

Technique seemed to lead inevitably to the story of how Neroon had first felt and confirmed his calling to the Warrior Caste. Not that it was a surprise to anyone, since his parents were both Warrior Caste, but Marcus still found himself absorbed by the emotion the memory recalled in Neroon. Without really intending it, the Ranger found himself responding with the tale of his induction into the Anla'Shoc...and the attack that had prompted it. 

That killed conversation for a moment. Then Neroon lifted his head and set his jaw, as if to say something shameful. "Marcus. At that time, most of my own people denied the return of the Shadows, though it had been predicted. How can you, to whom they were less than myth, be blamed for doing the same?" 

"I suppose," Marcus said, not entirely convinced, but the awkward moment had passed. 

Their conversation carried on long after dinner was over. Marcus discovered that Neroon's sense of humor, like his own, was very dry, but that unlike his, it was also hard to spark. Yet when he did manage to prompt laughter, it was rich and deep and patently heartfelt. Marcus was beginning to get the impression that Neroon felt everything with his whole being. There was something strangely honest about it. 

But eventually the meal had to end. Marcus returned to his quarters smiling and replaying fragments of the talk in his mind. He was in the midst of preparing for bed when his door chime rang. Startled, he answered it and found a messenger on the other side. 

In her hands she held a familiar envelope. 

Catching his breath, Marcus almost missed her question. "Can you tell me what's in that?" the messenger asked as she handed it over. "He threatened to kill me if I cracked the seal." 

"He?" Marcus asked, head snapping up. 

"Yeah." She confirmed. "And Minbari. Big guy -- not tall, but broad. I can tell you, I was expecting someone a whole lot different than you. I would have sworn that was a love letter." 

Marcus grinned. "How do you know it isn't?" he asked...and let the door close on the messenger's startled look. Rude, perhaps, but he didn't want to wait. Marcus went and put a 'do not disturb' on his comm. He didn't want to be interrupted either. 

This time, Marcus simply broke the pseudo-wax and its fingerprint. Unfolding the heavy paper, he caught his breath. This message was not a single sentence. It was an entire letter, each character beautifully crafted. Marcus folded himself into a sitting position right in the middle of the floor and bent over the page, rapt. 

#For all my life I have felt a complete and unshakable confidence in my own strength. I always had a lurking disdain, rarely articulated, for those who did not draw their strength from within as I did. I felt that they needed to be protected from their own weakness and that I must be the one to do so, since I saw no weakness in myself. 

I looked at the clinging affection of lifemates and thought only that to need another so deeply was a symptom of such weakness. If I ever wished for such companionship I banished it with the brief presence of a comrade in my bed. 

Nothing ever happened to make me doubt my convictions. The more time passed, the more often I prevailed in my endeavors, the more certain I grew that I was right. That, because of my strength, I _could not_ be wrong. It is an arrogance that was well learned over decades and never challenged. 

Never, until a challenge was made and met and broken in the warrens of this station. 

You stood before me and met my eyes and my pike with as much strength as I have ever felt in myself. If there was fear in your eyes, a tremble in your voice, it never shook your hand, or your resolve -- the true definition of courage. 

And when at last I had broken your body so well that you could not stand, still you would not yield. With your heart in your eyes and your life in your hands you stood against me, and I knew that I could not destroy you. I had never before been forced to acknowledge that another was as strong, as powerful, as certain as I was. Indeed, you were more than I, for you had faced defeat and still retained that spirit. 

In that moment I knew at last what it was to meet a kindred soul. I looked into your eyes and knew that lifemates do not _lean_ upon each other -- they rejoice in each other. 

Watching you wait for the death blow, I understood that admitting my mistake would not be weakness, but another kind of strength. It would not make less of me to have been wrong. Nor would it make more of me to insist I was right. 

Does it seem strange to you that the moment you shattered my most certain conviction was the moment I fell in love with you? But consider... 

I have seen the fire in your eyes. 

I have seen the honor in your soul. 

I have seen your body move gracefully when it is most driven, and lay peacefully when it is most damaged. 

I have seen your heart. 

I have seen you face death. 

And now I hope that I shall see you face love and life.# 

Marcus read the letter again, mouth shaping the words silently, and reverently folded it shut when he was done. Then he grinned and placed it in the drawer with the others. 

_Let him stew for awhile,_ he thought, and prepared for bed. 

The next afternoon, Marcus suspected he was having _far_ more fun sparring with Neroon than Neroon was having sparring with him. He kept his attacks pestering, his defenses insistently evasive. Marcus knew he was teasing. He could literally see Neroon getting frustrated with his refusal to engage directly...and his corresponding refusal to say anything at all about the letter. 

By now the Warrior had to be wondering if he'd received it at all. There was, after all, no chance that he wouldn't recognize the author if he'd read it. 

But eventually Marcus saw real anger start to spark in Neroon's eyes. _Time to finish this,_ Marcus thought. After such a long session of...foreplay, the flurry of attacks the Ranger launched now actually took Neroon off guard. Victorious, Marcus grinned at his companion. 

"Neroon?" 

"What?" The Minbari snapped. 

"Okay," Marcus said, still grinning. 

Neroon blinked. "Okay?" 

"Okay," Marcus confirmed. Then, just because Neroon was looking terribly confused, he leaned in and kissed him. Long, and slow, and sweet. Marcus pulled back and looked into dark eyes. "Okay?" 

Neroon's lips curled up. "Yes," he said firmly and wrapped his arms around Marcus and kissed him back. 

\--End--


End file.
